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One week down in the new apartment. I’ll admit that I get a kick out of telling people I live in Sleepy Hollow. What I don’t get a kick out of are the mounds of boxes I have to navigate around throughout the course of a morning or night here. It’s no fun to wonder where your utensils are packed, or possibly your socks or, most recently, your razor. Before last night, I managed to put off shaving for almost a week, having no clue whatsoever where any of the necessary implements were located in the mess of cardboard and packing tape that filled every room. But that brings up one thing I am certainly happy about, too: the fact that I now have “rooms…” I’m talking about the plural sense of the word here. My previous apartment was of the singular: “room.” There were no doors other than the one that divided the “room” proper from the place with the shower and toilet. I’m pretty sure it’s the law to keep those two sections of a dwelling separate, otherwise I’m not sure my former landlord would have sprung for the bathroom door.

But I digress…

What else is new? Well, since returning from Texas I joined one of those mail-order movie clubs, opting to go the Blockbuster.com route instead of Netflix. It’s a great little program, easy to use with a vast spectrum of titles in their library. My first request? The first season of “Lost.” I’m sick to death of hearing everyone talk about this show, so I’ve decided to see what all the hub-bub is about. She and I cruised through the first four episodes this weekend, and I was fairly impressed. I’m looking forward to the next disc and the sufficiently creepy uncertainty of the series.

(UPDATE: If anyone wants a promotional code to join blockbuster.com and receive the first four months free, contact me. I now have a few of them to hand out.)

On Friday night, we took a drive to Madison Square Garden to catch Tenacious D. While our seats were a bit too far away to get the full effect of Jack Black’s manic antics and facial expressions, the music was fun and the crowd wasn’t as obnoxious as I anticipated. It would have been a great night if we hadn’t taken a wrong turn leaving the city and ended up lost in Jersey for the next two hours. Put it on record, folks - I truly believe that New Jersey is the worst place in the world. When I think of Hell, I think of Jersey. When I think of the worst possible thing I could do to someone, Jersey is always the setting. If the nation was a human body, Jersey would be an infected, ingrown toenail.

But enough of all that.

On the horizon lurks another wedding, some relaxing holiday time spent at home with family and, of course, more unpacking to do…